Leslie LaFoy

by Jacksons Way

  He's going to die. The unspoken words echoed through her heart. She wouldn't crumble. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Jackson Stennett. She carefully put the bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons, saying, “Please put today's correspondence in Richard's valise, Ben. I'll need it all.”

  Ben nodded and quickly set to the task. As Lindsay pulled on her gloves, Dr. Bernard picked up his bag and started toward the door. Jackson Stennett followed, carefully cradling the unconscious Richard Patterson in his arms. She watched them go, knowing with absolute certainty that her world had shifted on its axis and that the Texan was to blame.

  Accepting the valise from Ben, she strode after the men, mentally ordering her priorities. The first was to care for Richard, to do whatever she could to make sure he recovered as fully as possible. The second was to be rid of Stennett quickly. She was certain he factored into Richard's collapse. She needed time to find out how, and form a strategy for dealing with whatever threat he posed.

  Cheat God first. Then deal with the Devil. Lindsay lifted her chin. She could do it. She didn't have any other choice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CARRIAGE WAS SMALL and once he'd carefully placed Richard Patterson on the one seat, he backed out to allow Dr. Bernard to occupy the other. After assuring the physician that he'd carry Patterson out at the end of their journey, Jackson closed the door and strode down the sidewalk toward the second black vehicle. Lindsay MacPhaull stood with one foot inside the carriage and watched him approach. From the defiant tilt of her chin, he could guess the course she intended to take. The trust she'd granted him in the moments following Patterson's collapse had evaporated soon after the doctor's arrival. And in the scant minutes between then and now, she'd drawn a line and committed herself to keeping him on the other side of it. He couldn't really blame her. But he couldn't let her do it, either.

  As he drew near, she pasted a false smile on her face and said, “I greatly appreciate your assistance, Mr. Stennett.”

  “It was the least I could do.” He put his hand under her elbow in a not-so-subtle suggestion that she climb into her carriage. Behind him he heard the one bearing Richard Patterson start away.

  She glanced after it, but remained rooted to the spot. “I have servants who can assist once we reach the house.”

  Face it square on, Jack. “I recognize a polite dismissal when I hear one,” he said, exerting a gentle force that propelled her forward, “but you and I need to talk, Miss MacPhaull. The sooner, the better.”

  She dropped unceremoniously onto the seat, her eyes blazing. Tossing the valise on the opposite seat, she said crisply, “As much as I dislike agreeing with Otis Vanderhagen about anything, now is not a good time. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

  “I don't mean to be insensitive, Miss MacPhaull,” he countered, following her in and closing the carriage door sharply behind himself, “but the truth is that Richard Patterson could well be dead by tomorrow morning.” He shoved the valise aside and sat opposite her, his knees brushing against hers in the small space. “Even if things go reasonably well, he's going to be in no shape to handle the reins of the company for some time to come.”

  “Forgive me for being so blunt,” she replied, the perfect picture of imperial control as she shifted to move her legs beyond the touch of his, “but I fail to see how the conduct of my business is any of your concern.”

  “That's what we need to talk about. Your business is my business now.”

  She sat up straighter and looked down her nose at him. “A moment of timely gallantry does not entitle you to interfere, Mr. Stennett.”

  Billy should have stayed in New York, if for no other reason than to tan his daughter's pompous backside. Jackson reined in his anger. “Miss MacPhaull, I realize you've had a difficult morning and I'm trying very hard not to trample your feelings. You're not making it easy for me.”

  “I suggest that you have Mr. Vanderhagen present your claims against the estate in the traditional fashion. Your bills will be paid in a fair and timely manner.”

  Damn. She hadn't figured it out yet. “I don't have any claims against your father's estate,” he explained, trying to see a way to tell her that wasn't cruel and sensing that—no matter what he did—this would go badly. It was clear that Lindsay MacPhaull wasn't the sort of woman to back up and give a man room to come at things easy.

  “If you have no bills to present, then why have you made the trip from Texas, Mr. Stennett?” She didn't allow him a chance to answer. “If you came simply to provide the Will and offer condolences on my father's passing, please leave the effort at what you've already made. William MacPhaull left here seventeen years ago and we haven't heard from or of him since. His passing creates no more of a ripple in our lives than that of a pebble dropped into the sea off the coast of England.”

  “I'm thinking it does, Miss MacPhaull,” he countered a bit more sharply than he intended. “If you'd kindly quit yammering long enough to listen to—”

  “Your behavior might pass for well mannered in Texas, but here in New York it's considered insufferably rude.”

  He bristled and before he could think better of it, said bluntly, “Miss MacPhaull, your daddy not only left you seventeen years ago, he left you high and dry when he died.”

  She blinked and actually took two breaths before saying with quiet dignity, “I beg your pardon? Is there an English translation for what you've just said?”

  There was no need for it; he could tell by the way she eased back into the seat that she finally understood the gist of the situation. Despite that, she maintained her regal presence and it irritated him enough to take another hard shot. “Your father obviously made a new life for himself in Texas. Toward the end of it, he also made a new Will. He left all his worldly property to me.” He reached for the valise, opened it, removed the copy of Billy's Will, and handed it to her. “Read for yourself.”

  She glared at him for a long second, then angled the paper and herself into better light and began to read just as Richard Patterson had, slowly at first and then much more quickly. Jackson leaned back into the corner of the seat and crossed his arms, waiting and watching. The creak of carriage springs and the hollow clomp of hooves against paving stones rolled through the space between them. Her breath caught hard and the color drained out of her face. For a moment he wondered if she was going to be sick. Her hands trembling, she took a slow breath and went back to read the part three times. Then she stopped reading and the paper wrinkled from the tightness of her grip.

  Jackson shoved back the pity he felt for her and continued to watch her carefully, trying to anticipate the way she would come at him. Her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips pursed—which he took to mean that she was going to be a bit more rational than Patterson had been. All things considered, that was good. Her chin slowly lifted; she was going to fight him. If he were in her shoes, he'd do the same thing. When she looked up at him, her face a mask of cool disdain, he also knew that she was going to continue on in her regal manner. That he wasn't going to take.

  Her stomach roiling and her throat thick with suppressed tears, Lindsay folded the document and summoned every bit of her poise. “I'll fight this in court, Mr. Stennett,” she told him with what she hoped he heard as calm assurance. “You have no right to anything my father owned outside the Republic of Texas. If you were a decent, honorable man, you'd tear up this Will and pretend you'd never seen it.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I'm between a rock and a hard place and don't have room to be a decent, honorable man. I'm a cattleman who needs clear title to half the ranch and with no money to do that unless he sells the property his partner left him. I don't intend to let seventeen years of hard work blow off into the wind just because there were a few wrinkles in Billy's life I didn't know about. Sorry, ma'am.”

  Lindsay gripped the Will and resisted the temptation to use it to slap the soft smile off Jackson Stennett's handsome face. “How much money do you need?” she demanded tightly.


  “A considerable sum.”

  “In dollars and cents, Mr. Stennett,” she snapped, maddened by the ease of his drawl and the nonchalance of his posture. “Exactly how much do you want from me?”

  “It's not yours to give, ma'am.”

  The words struck hard, all the more painful for the truth of it. She was penniless. Made absolutely destitute by her own father's decision. God, what was she going to do? Refusing to fall apart in front of Stennett, she fell back on what had always saved her. “I'm willing to negotiate.”

  “With what?” he countered, cocking an ebony brow. “I own everything, Miss MacPhaull. From the business holdings to the pots and pans in your kitchen.”

  Common sense said she couldn't afford to let him know how frightened she really was. Praying that he couldn't hear the thundering of her heart, she managed to ask coolly, “Is it your intention to throw us into the streets with only the clothes on our backs?”

  He gave her a quirked smile and a dismissive shrug. “Legally, I own your clothing, too.”

  Her composure crumbling, Lindsay bit her tongue and swallowed back hot tears of rage. And to think that she'd been so grateful for his presence when Richard had collapsed. What a silly little fool she'd been. He sat there looking at her, the light of satisfaction unmistakable in his eyes, and she wished him—with all her heart—to the fiery depths of hell.

  “Cat finally got your tongue?” he asked dryly.

  The carriage slowed and rolled to a stop and rather than risk the indignity of screeching and launching herself at him, Lindsay leaned forward, wrenched open the door, and all but leapt from the carriage. Whirling back, she met his gaze and declared hotly, “I'll bring the full weight of the law down on you, Stennett.”

  “The Will's ironclad; it can't be broken,” he countered calmly as he came off the seat and out the door. “If you don't believe me, you can ask Vanderhagen what he thinks.”

  She had no recourse but to retreat in the face of his advance. Wounded pride kept her from going any farther than absolutely necessary. It proved to be a shortsighted decision. Either she had to crane her head back to look up into his hat-shadowed face or stare at the wide expanse of his chest. Neither choice being acceptable, Lindsay opted for a calculated retreat. Turning on her heel, she said, “I'm sure you'll understand if I don't invite you in.”

  She had gotten only a single step away when he caught her arm and brought her back around to face him. Lindsay stared up at him, more stunned by the power in his gentle grasp than she was by his presumption to physically detain her.

  “If you hope to come out of this with anything,” he said slowly, “you'd best be looking for a way into my good graces.”

  Good graces? Just precisely what was he suggesting? That she prostitute herself? Never! She wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘odious’?”

  His eyes glinted hard and bright. “Yes, I do. And it's the perfect word to describe this mess Billy left us. If he weren't already dead, I'd be thinking about killing him.” With a bare nod of his head, he indicated the house. “You see to the door and I'll see to getting Mr. Patterson through it.”

  Lindsay did as she was told, furiously trying to see a way out of the ugly maze that had so suddenly sprung up around her.

  HER PACING IN THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAY was no less furious than her entrance into the house had been. And it produced no more answers than she'd had when she'd swept past Mrs. Beechum to lead Dr. Bernard and Jackson Stennett up to the guest room.

  The door opened and she froze as Stennett stepped out, his hat back in his hand again. “All ready for you to go in, ma'am,” he drawled. “The doc suggested you ask that some of Mr. Patterson's nightclothes be brought over from his place.”

  Of course. She'd been so preoccupied with her own selfish concerns that she hadn't thought of Richard's needs at all. Ashamed of herself, Lindsay nodded. “I'll speak with Mrs. Beechum about it as soon as I can.”

  “I'll be glad to speak with her for you, if you'd like. It'll speed matters up a bit.”

  His presumption to take charge of her household rankled, but she couldn't fault his logic. “That would be most considerate of you,” she answered. “Please tell Mrs. Beechum to request that Richard's man, Havers, bring any necessary items for both Richard and himself. I think it best that Havers take up temporary residence here. Assuming he's willing to do so.”

  “Consider it done, ma'am.” He bowed slightly and then strode down the carpeted hall.

  Lindsay watched him until he disappeared down the stairs, noting how long his legs were, how purposeful his stride. What a shame that they were adversaries; having an ally of Jackson Stennett's age and with his sense of self-possession might have been a pleasant experience. Lindsay sighed, shook her head to dispel the pointless musing, and entered the guest room.

  The light flooding in the windows couldn't cheer the scene before her. Richard lay pale and still in the big four-poster bed, his skin as white and lifeless as the linen sheets, the slow rise and fall of the coverlet the only sign that his soul still lingered in his battered body. She met Dr. Bernard's gaze across the bed. “Do you have any hope at all?” Lindsay asked softly.

  “I've seen miracles,” he answered, closing his black bag and buttoning his coat. “They do happen.”

  Not in her life. What good fortune had ever come her way, she'd fought for and willed into existence. “Can you operate?”

  The physician sighed hard and long. “It's a highly dangerous procedure. And you know Richard's feelings on such measures, Lindsay. We both know that if he were capable of speaking, he wouldn't allow it. I can't ethically undertake surgery in this case. Please try to understand.”

  She did, all too well. How many times had Richard railed at his paralyzed legs and cursed the years he'd been confined to his wheeled chair? How many times had he told her that he wished he'd been killed in the carriage accident?

  “He's not in any pain, Lindsay,” the doctor said softly, pausing at her side on his way out of the room. “Have you sent for Havers?” When she nodded, Dr. Bernard laid his hand gently on her shoulder. “That's good. Send for me if you need to. Day or night.”

  “Thank you for everything,” she managed to say before her throat swelled with tears. The door closed behind him and the sound, soft and final, tore the last stone from the wall of her reserve. Hot tears flooded silently over her cheeks. Her knees went weak and she staggered forward to cling to the ornately carved column at the foot of the bed.

  “Oh, Richard,” she whispered brokenly. “What should I do?”

  Silence. The coverlet rose and fell slowly. Sunlight streamed through the windows and fell full across Richard Patterson's masklike face. The curtain needed to be drawn, she realized, sniffling. That much light would never do.

  Surrendering to grief would never do, either. Richard might not feel any pain, but if he had any awareness at all he wouldn't be pleased to have her standing beside his bed, carrying on like a brainless ninny. The situation had to be faced squarely and rationally. And she certainly couldn't go downstairs and face Stennett with red eyes and tearstained cheeks. Any leverage she might have would be completely undermined by such evidence of emotional weakness.

  “Richard, I've seen the Will,” she said, crossing the room. “And we don't have much room for maneuvering. We could try to break it in court, but at what cost? We're financially strapped already. If we win, it'll be a hollow victory. There'll be nothing left once we've paid the attorneys.”

  Adjusting the curtains so that they softened the light coming through the windows, she added, “I've talked a bit with Stennett—just on the ride over from the office—but I have a sense of there being more hope in trying to work with him than in fighting him. I don't think he's mean-spirited. Determined, yes. Plainspoken to the point of rudeness, certainly. But he left open a door for negotiation and I don't see that we have any choice but to see what can come of it.

  “I don't like it,” she
admitted, coming to the bed and smoothing the coverlet around him. “You know that. But you also have to know that we don't have any other reasonable course. I'll do my best, Richard. I promise to use every skill you've ever taught me. I'll salvage everything I possibly can. I'll take care of you.”

  Lindsay smoothed an errant lock of white hair back into place. “You're not to worry about anything, all right?” she whispered. “All you have to do is get well. Leave the rest to me.”

  She touched his cheek and quietly left him, desperately hoping that she could live up to the promises she'd made him.

  • • •

  JACKSON LOOKED AT THE CLOCK on the mantel across the study. Just after ten. It had been one helluva morning and, the hour be damned, he'd earned a good stiff drink. The decision made, it was a short distance to the cabinet and the neatly arranged crystal decanters and glasses. He filled a glass with whiskey, sampled it, and smiled. Miss Lindsay MacPhaull had good taste in distilled spirits. There might be hope for her yet. He'd reserve final judgment, though, until he heard the story that went with the one-armed housekeeper. Mrs. Beechum certainly seemed competent enough, and she was a thoroughly pleasant older lady—not at all like the succession of pinched-faced, humorless women who had passed through the homes of his childhood.

  “Who are you?”

  The indignation in the feminine voice suggested that the woman was a MacPhaull. But Lindsay, at her worst, hadn't sounded even close to that regal. He turned to find a woman standing in the open doorway. Brunette, passably pretty, tall, and not exactly slender. He chewed the inside of his lip, deciding the polite term was ‘statuesque.’

  A four-legged mop of long black-and-brown fur was tethered to her hand by an ivory silk cord. At least he assumed the animal had legs; they weren't any more visible than its eyes. Ears were merely suggested by the lumps in the expected vicinity of ears. There was a nose, though. It was little and black and just above tiny white teeth bared in displeasure. He looked up from the dog and into a pair of ebony, utterly disdainful eyes.